


Five Things That Never Happened to Murphy MacManus

by randi2204



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Childhood Sexual Abuse, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-24 19:03:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4931551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randi2204/pseuds/randi2204
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exactly what it says on the tin.   (Please see the end notes for warnings.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Things That Never Happened to Murphy MacManus

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Not mine, no money, only playing. Really.

**I**

 

A week ago and more, and he would have been delighting in the blazing row taking place in the kitchen that fine Sunday morning.

 

But seven days can change many things—after all, the Lord created the world and everything in it in six, didn’t he?—and the row just left him with a sick feeling in his gut.  It was all he could do to keep himself from huddling into the corner like one of those weak-willed little sissy boys that Ma so despised.

 

Connor seemed to have taken all his fire, all his anger and will, leaving him with nothing but hollowness and guilt.  He was _shouting_ at Ma, bless him, standing up to her with all the outrage that two boys no more than 10 could show.

 

“It’s Sunday, damn you both, and it’s to church he’ll be goin’!” Ma roared.  The flowers trembled in the hat she only wore on Sundays.  She glared at her sons, one flushed, bristling in wrath and one silent and pale.

 

“It’s old enough to make up his own mind he is,” Connor shot back, “and if Murph says he doesnae want to go, why then he doesnae want to go!”  He had his hands balled into fists, and Murphy knew well the thoughts that ran through Connor’s head.  He took a sidling step to stand behind his twin, because it was what they did.  They fought like hell but they backed each other up. 

 

That was one of the lessons that Ma had taught them young and well.

 

But his movement had drawn notice.  “Speak for yerself, boy,” Ma said to him, as if she were biting out the words.  Her blue eyes narrowed as she stared at him over Connor’s shoulder, and she folded her arms across her chest.  “An’ why is it you’re not wantin’ to go to church?  Is it lookin’ for Hell you are?”

 

“It’s ‘cause the priest—” Connor stopped himself there but the damage had been done.  Rather than look at Ma’s shocked face, he gave Murphy a mournful look over his shoulder.

 

Murphy just closed his eyes and shuddered, trying not to think about hands God had consecrated _touching_ him, and vowed he’d never set foot in a church again.

 

* * *

**II**

 

Connor sank onto his bed, staring at him in disbelief.  “What the hell?”

 

Murphy couldn’t stand the weight of his twin’s eyes, and buried his face in his hands again.  “Sorry,” he muttered, but it was muffled by his fingers and came out all garbled.

 

“What the fuckin’ hell?  Murph, what the fuckin’ hell were you _thinkin’?_ ”

 

He flinched at the accusation and betrayal in his brother’s voice.

 

A far cry it was from mere minutes ago.  Connor, sensing his depression, if not knowing the cause, had tried to lift his spirits by talking about what they were going to do when they took the boat to America.

 

He had no way of knowing that _that_ was the very thing that was causing him such distress.

 

_“I can’t go, Con.”_

 

And of course, Connor had demanded to know _why_.

 

Out it tumbled, as he watched Connor’s eyes grow wide and dark— _“Annie Reilly from just up the lane, an’ you know how pretty she is, an’ she invited me in when her parents were from home.  ‘Twas only once, but now she’s late, so… She told me it were safe, don’t look at me like that, Con, ‘twas only once…”_

 

But it wasn’t just his own life he’d ruined, Murphy knew that well enough as he saw the light flicker and die in his twin’s eyes.  Connor would not—could not—leave without him, and he couldn’t leave here at all, not any more.

 

Chains bound him, made of gold and an impulsive instant of pleasure in soft willing flesh, and there wasn’t enough regret in the world for what he’d done.

 

And even though he knew Connor would stand with him at the wedding that would have to take place soon, he also knew nothing would ever be the same between them again.

 

* * *

**III**

 

He wasn’t fighting them at all, but Ivan and his fat friend weren’t any too gentle about the way they manhandled him. 

 

_O’course, why the fuck would they be?  They’re only goin’ to kill me._

 

Connor’s screams sounded so loud in his ears that he looked back over his shoulder as they pushed him out the door.

 

Connor, handcuffed around the base of the toilet, blood dripping down his face from where he’d been pistol-whipped, calling his name in a voice that was hoarse and filled with desperation.  And his _eyes_ …

 

He couldn’t stand the fear in them, and had to turn away.  It was almost like his twin wasn’t even _there_ any more, that his panic had driven Connor mad.

 

_“Murphy!  Murph!”_

 

He couldn’t hear his brother once the Russians shoved him into the alley.  Briefly, his mind working a mile a minute, he wondered at his chances.  _Could I make them angry enough to fuck it up?_

 

The answer was, _Probably not._

 

Even when he knelt down by the dumpster and looked down the barrel of Ivan’s gun, he felt no fear.  He and God had come to an understanding years ago.

 

He only hoped it wouldn’t hurt.  To keep himself from closing his eyes and looking like a pansy, he stared fixedly at Ivan’s finger on the trigger.

 

It twitched, slowly flexed—

 

The shot echoed brutally loud in the alley, and if anyone in the tenements dared look down, all they saw was a body in the garbage with bare legs and work boots.

 

* * *

**IV**

 

Connor had gone to take a piss, and Rock’ had nearly passed out at the table.  The adrenaline and alcohol and cigarettes had left Murphy with a buzz that wouldn’t die, but Rock’ hadn’t had the same rush at all, and he never could hold his liquor.

 

Trying to ignore the remains of the cat, Murphy got to his feet, moving gingerly because it felt that if he moved too fast, his heart would jackhammer right out of his chest.

 

Rock’ was slumped down, his cheek pressed to the chipped plastic of the tabletop.  His eyes were closed, but his mouth was open just a bit, and he was starting to snore.

 

All Murphy could smell was blood and metal and beer, but if he gave it just a little effort, he could remember what Rocco smelled like—yesterday? two days ago?—when he’d brought a change of clothes to the jail for him and Connor.  Cheap cologne, freshly washed clothes and shampoo, and his hair had feathered just right over his shoulders.

 

Rock’s hair was tangled now, from sweat and maybe just a little blood where he and Connor had held him down in the charnel house they’d created, but Murphy still brushed it carefully away from his face as he knelt down beside him.  Then his fingers traced his features, barely touching skin but still feeling the warmth drifting up from him.

 

Everyone called him Rocco, or Rock’, or Funnyman, and Murphy wondered irrelevantly if he’d ever been David to anyone but his mama, his family.

 

Not the Family, just… family.

 

Murphy had never thought he’d need anyone other than Connor, but he _needed_ Rock’, in a way that made him ache and grit his teeth and sometimes wake up with an urgent need to wash the sheets.

 

Rock’s mouth was slack and his beard and mustache needed a trim, tickling his cheeks and chin, but he still kissed him, delving deep and tasting the whiskey that still lingered on his tongue.

 

He lost himself, and it was a shock when a hand grabbed his shoulder and pushed—no, _pulled_ —him away.  He fell on his arse and blinked up.  Connor towered over him, fists clenched and his face full of anger.

 

And disgust.  He felt himself wither inside, and dropped his eyes.

 

“I won’t tell Rock’ what you’ve done,” Connor hissed, and Murphy shuddered at the loathing in his twin’s voice.  “But get the fuck out o’ here an’ don’t come back.”

 

Without a word, he climbed unsteadily to his feet and stumbled out the door, leaving everything behind but sorrow.

 

* * *

**V**

 

Somehow, Connor had known that they were going to shoot off Rock’s other finger almost before Yakavetta had positioned the gun against his hand, and shouted for Rock’ to look at him over and over.

 

The gun was too loud in the tiny room, and Murphy’s ears were ringing with it, with Rock’s screams of pain, with Connor’s cries and his own as he rained down curses on the retreating dons.

 

None of them were expecting it when the door opened again scant seconds later and Yakavetta reappeared.

 

Rock’ was still howling and swearing and didn’t know or care about the danger that hovered by him.  But this time, Murphy got the same inkling of intent that Connor had gotten before.

 

Except he couldn’t do anything but yell; he was too far away from the door and the don.

 

Yakavetta raised his gun, pointed it straight at Rocco, who still mouthed foul insults at his former boss.

 

Again came the explosion of gunfire in too small a space.  But this time, it was followed by silence.

 

Connor had lurched violently to the side, into Rock’, knocking him out of the bullet’s path, sending him crashing into Murphy, who cracked his head against the wall hard enough to see stars.

 

The sound of the bullet thudding into flesh was the loudest thing Murphy had ever heard.

 

Connor made a noise, a strangled little gurgling sucking sound, even as Yakavetta shrugged and lifted his gun and turned away.

 

Murphy started screaming as the door shut, wordless shrieking that deafened him, that went on in his head after his voice was shredded.

 

When the grey beard with the guns showed up sometime later, Rock’ had pushed himself into the far corner, fainting with blood loss and exertion.  Murphy had deliberately tipped himself over, chair and all, and inch-wormed his way over to where his twin’s body lay on cold cement.  He’d buried his face in the blood-soaked fabric of Connor’s shirt and wept out his heartbreak, cursing God and every saint he could remember over and over.

 

He didn’t even look up when Rock’ shouted, when gunfire pulsed through the cell for the third and fourth times.

 

A hot ring of metal against his temple penetrated his madness and made him smile faintly.  God had heard him and granted his prayer despite his blasphemy.

 

“Shepherds we shall be…”

 

And then the pain was over.

 

***

October 2, 2005

**Author's Note:**

>  **Warnings:** We've got off-screen sexual abuse of a child (I), off-screen M/F sex (II), on-screen M/M kissing while one of them is passed out drunk (IV), homophobia (also IV), and character death (III, V). If any of these things are not your cuppa, please read with care or find something else. Thank you!


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